


The Parka of Awfulness

by Thistlepaw



Category: South Park
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Angst, Friendship, Parenthood, Parkas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-05-07 19:08:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19215682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thistlepaw/pseuds/Thistlepaw
Summary: Clyde's dad has bought him the ugliest raincoat in the world - and he is forcing Clyde to wear it to school. The horror...!





	The Parka of Awfulness

**Author's Note:**

> This fic came about from discussing (and basically swapping) story ideas with sonofthanatos - please go check out their corresponding fic about Clyde's laundry here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19213294 - it's great!
> 
> This one was based on the idea that, after his wife died, Mr Donovan would be torn between spoiling his son and being overprotective - setting a curfew, fretting about his safety, etc. I'd say the boys are about 14/15 years old here? Also, I was trying to make it all funny, but I guess I just suck all the joy out of the world these days? So this is like, a silly sandwich with a side-salad of angst. Bon appetit!

“Dad,” Clyde swallows, “You’re not serious. Are you?”  
His father blinks at him, from behind his thick glasses. He’s holding up what has got to be the ugliest jacket in the _world._ A big, shapeless… _thing_ of raincoat, with these weird sparkly, silver-like panels that run up each hot pink sleeve, _and_ down the front of the body. The actual body of the jacket is an eye-searing lime green. What, did the manufacturers run out of one fabric, and decide to just make the sleeves from a different one? Or were the poor bastards working the assembly line all colour blind?! Not to mention the logo, or mascot, or whatever the heck that’s supposed to be. It’s printed right above where your heart would be, if you could actually make yourself put this thing on. It’s a little floating, furry head that looks like a raccoon – with rabies.  
“What do you mean,” Dad is saying, and yes, he’s perfectly serious. “This is the safest jacket I’ve found! See all those reflector panels? If you’re walking home after dark, and a car comes up, they’ll see you from a mile away!”  
“And if aliens are real, they’ll see me too – from the _stratosphere,_ ” Clyde counters, as he discreetly pulls his football jacket down from its hook. “Please, Dad – don’t make me wear that thing. I’ve already _got_ a jacket – ”  
“That’s nowhere _near_ appropriate for the weather we’re having,” Dad snaps, and Clyde can see that he’s actually starting to get annoyed. Dad almost _never_ gets annoyed, but then, Dad probably thinks he’s giving Clyde a _present._ He doesn’t understand, if Clyde shows up at school wearing _that,_ he’ll be committing social suicide.  
“I’ll bring an umbrella! I’ll wear a hat –”  
“You never wear hats,” Dad snaps, which is another thing they’ve always disagreed on. Nobody _actually_ catches a head-cold from their head getting cold, right? Not that Clyde’s head gets cold in the first place! And also, this is why human beings have _hair!_ Hats are _stupid!_ “Now put that one back,” Dad is saying, and his tone is getting dangerously close to irritated, “And put this on! Or I’ll be late for work, and you’ll miss the bus!”  
“Fine!” Clyde knows when he’s lost. He carefully hangs his treasured football jacket – the symbol that he’s made it, the proof that he’s cool enough, and fit enough, and no longer the second-fattest kid in class – back up on is peg. “Didn’t it come in _any_ other colours,” he mutters, as his fingers finally close around the fabric, which somehow manages to be rough _and_ sort of… sticky at the same time. And oh God, that raccoon is also printed on the back – across the _whole_ back! – in all its shiny-eyed, frothy-toothed glory.  
“Not in the two-XL they didn’t,” Dad replies, and he sounds just a little bit relieved that he doesn’t need to be mad anymore.  
“Two-XL,” Clyde wails, he’s just discovered how long the sleeves are. They flap past his hands and almost down to his knees; he has to fold them over _four times_ just to get his hands through the holes.  
“Well, you just keep growing, don’t you! I figured I’d get you a jacket you could _grow into,_ ” Dad says firmly, picking up his satchel off the floor and slinging it across his shoulder. He’s wearing one of those jackets too, Clyde realizes, only in a size that actually _fits_ him! Not to mention the colours are navy blue with black sleeves, that’s not fair! Fine, so this one also has an animal logo, but it’s only a cross-eyed octopus! That’s _way_ less awful than the raccoon!  
“Now come on!” Dad’s pulled the front door open, and Clyde reluctantly trudges outside into the rain. “And I’ll see you back here at nine, okay?”  
“Okay,” Clyde mutters. Damn. School is going to _suck_ today.

“Maybe if we all draw on it,” Craig suggests dubiously, as he pulls a black Sharpie out of his rocket-shaped pencil case. Craig’s wearing a raincoat, too, but it’s all-over black, and somehow makes him look like a secret agent about to infiltrate their school. Like he could have guns and knives and stuff like that tucked away inside it, all secure in their hidden pockets. “These are watertight, right?”  
“I dunno,” Clyde mutters, ducking his head. The first thing he did, as soon as he put his foot on the first step of the bus, was shake that damn jacket off and wad it up into a tight ball of fabric. By then, of course, everyone on his _street_ had seen it, including Bebe. Clyde couldn’t even make himself respond to her, when she’d said hi.  
Bebe’s sitting a few seats behind him now, but Clyde can feel her eyes drilling into the back of his head, even though she’s whispering about something with a couple of the other girls. A cascade of giggles makes him flinch; Clyde can hazard a pretty good guess about what – who – they’re laughing at. Damn it all.  
“It’s w-worth a t-t-try,” Jimmy says, digging his own pencil case out. He seems to be finding this all way funnier than he needs to, but at least he’s offering to help. Lucky him, he’s just got a normal yellow rain coat. The kind fishermen always wear on TV, in movies _and_ in news reports. No doubt Jimmy got to pick it out himself, Clyde thinks, and in his favourite colour, too. The envy just _burns_ him. _Thou shalt not covet another man’s wife,_ that’s fair enough – but _Thou canst totally covet another man’s raincoat._  
The next stop is where Token and Tweek get on. Tweek’s got the hood of his blue rain coat pulled up so tight, you can barely see his face in there at all. “It’s stuck,” he mutters unhappily, as he slips into the seat next to Craig’s. “The wind kept blowing my hood off, so I kept pulling the string tighter, and GAH! What _is_ that?!”  
“That’s my new parka,” Clyde says, taking the Sharpie from Craig, who now has his hands full trying to undo Tweek’s crazy knot, just as the bus jumps over a pothole.  
“Oh dear,” Token says, sliding into the seat behind Jimmy and Clyde. Of course, _his_ raincoat is really cool; a shade of purple so dark; you’d almost think it was blue. “I don’t suppose you still have the receipt?” 

The black ink doesn’t stand a chance against the unrelenting rain. Clyde was expecting that, really. Just as well they only had time to colour in half a sleeve, the five of them working together once Craig had sliced the whole knot off of Tweek’s hood with his Exacto knife. As soon as they get off the bus, all that ink just runs right off.  
“Clyyyde!”  
Oh great, Clyde thinks, turning around just in time to see Eric Cartman climb off the bus. The fat boy is grinning from ear to ear – and wearing a totally normal dark red rain coat, with those super nifty sleeves you can slide your thumb through, too. Life really isn’t fair.  
“Is that a new jacket?” Cartman’s using that tone where he’s trying to sound like he’s being nice – but really, he’s got some evil zingers saved up, and is dying to use them.  
“What do you think,” Clyde replies, making his voice as flat and uncaring as he can.  
“I think it’s too _bad_ your mom’s not around anymore,” Cartman coos, “To pick out your clothes _for_ you!”  
“Hey asshole,” Craig begins, but Kyle Broflofski is faster than him.  
“Not funny, Fatass,” Kyle snaps, giving Cartman a hard little shove with one elbow on his way through the school gates. Cartman immediately starts to waddle after him, spitting out some rant about Jewish people, but Clyde tunes him out.  
Yeah. Too bad about Mom, huh?  
“Come on,” Token says, putting his hand on Clyde’s back – right where he imagines that grinning raccoon head must be. “Let’s just get out of the rain.”  
“Right,” Tweek says fiercely, wrapping both arms around one of those nasty pink sleeves and yanking down hard on Clyde’s arm. “Cartman’s such a _doucebag!_ ”

It rains for the rest of the school day, which means football practice – the _best_ part of Wednesdays – gets cancelled. The pitch is all muddy and gross, not to mention unsafe to play on. The cheerleaders still get to practice inside, in the gym, and on any other day, Clyde would’ve stuck around to watch them. But today – no. Just no. He hasn’t even managed to talk to Bebe _once._ So when Token asks if he wants to come over and hang, Clyde _jumps_ on the idea. Jimmy tags along, too, since Craig and Tweek have apparently got some super secret boyfriend stuff to do.  
The three of them spend the whole bus ride back to Token’s debating which game to play – well, Token and Jimmy do. Clyde’s never been more conscious of people staring at him since his first day back in school after Mom died. It’s _got_ to be the jacket.  
They end up playing King of Fighters, up in Token’s room. Sure the game’s ancient, but that’s part of the charm – they know it so well, they can just jump right in and start smacking the bejeezus out of each other. Clyde picks his usual favourites – Joe, Geese and Mature, who’s always reminded him a little of Bebe. Now _that_ would be a dream cosplay; not that he’d ever have the guts to suggest it to her. They all have their favourites; Token always picks Athena as one of his characters, and if Craig were here, he’d definitely play as Iori. Jimmy’s team is all-female, of course – Clyde likes to have a balance of fighter classes, but Jimmy’s always said he goes for the bouncy factor and that it’s all just button-mashing anyway.  
Afterwards, they do their homework together, downstairs in the living room, while Token’s dad cooks dinner. Token’s mom comes and sits with them, and she’s even better at explaining stuff than Token is. And dinner is amazing – there is definitely a difference between lasagne that someone’s made from the ground up, and lasagne that you heat in the microwave. The boys all help clean up afterwards – Jimmy at the sink, rinsing the dishes; then passing them to Clyde and Token, who stack them in the dishwasher. When they’re all done, Clyde wipes his hands on his jeans, grabs an apple from that fruit bowl that’s always on the kitchen counter… and almost drops it right on the floor, when he happens to glance at the clock above the door.  
“Holy crap,” he whispers, because it’s quarter to nine. How did time even go by that fast?! Out in the living room, he can hear Jimmy testing out one of his new joke routines on Token’s parents, who are laughing along.  
“Clyde?” Token’s leaning inside, one hand around the doorframe, frowning. “Is something wrong?”  
Why do I have to be home by nine _anyway,_ Clyde thinks.  
It’s not like Dad will be done cashing up at the store by then; he never is. And why should he have to go back to an empty house? Token’s parents are so nice, and so warm, and he’d much rather listen to Jimmy’s new routine with them – even though he’s heard it already, Jimmy’s always changing stuff on the fly.  
“Nah,” Clyde says, and takes a bite out of the apple. “I’m all good.”

By the time Mrs Black has dropped him and Jimmy off outside the Valmers’ house, it’s gone nine thirty-five. And even then, Clyde waits around to say hi to Mrs Valmer, and make sure Jimmy gets inside okay. It’s stopped raining, but it’s getting cold now, and the last thing he wants is for Jimmy to slip on a patch of ice in the dark.  
“See you t-t-tomorrow,” Jimmy says, grinning and propping himself up on one crutch so he can wave to Clyde with his free hand.  
“See you tomorrow, Jimmy!”  
His own house is only two doors down, and Clyde can see right away that Dad’s red Volkswagen Rabbit is parked in the driveway. Maybe Dad’ll have just gone upstairs and straight into the shower, and not noticed how Clyde’s not back yet? Hah. As soon as he’s unlocked the front door, Clyde _knows._ He can _feel_ that Dad’s down here, waiting for him.  
“H-hey,” Clyde calls out, kicking his gumboots off, and hanging up that horrible parka as far away from his beloved football jacket as he can. Just so his football jacket won’t get wet.  
There is no answer, just the sound of Dad’s fingers, tapping on the coffee table.  
Squaring his shoulders, Clyde picks his backpack up and walks into the living room. “Hey Dad,” he tries again, hating how his voice comes out all shaky.  
“Do you know what time it is,” Dad asks him flatly.  
“Um, well… We went to Token’s after school, and…”  
“It’s twenty to ten,” Dad says, as if Clyde hasn’t spoken at all. “And you didn’t call. Didn’t even text me to say you’d be home late.”  
“I’m sorry, I…”  
“Do you have any idea how worried I’ve been?” Dad looks up sharply, tilting his chin so the light from that standing lamp in the corner reflects off his glasses. Clyde can’t see Dad’s eyes at all, just these big, yellow squares of light. It’s like Dad’s not even _himself_ anymore.  
And suddenly, something inside of Clyde just unravels.  
“Why? Because I might get hit by a car? Fat chance of that; with that parka you’re making me wear. Or do you think I’ll go crazy, like Mom did?”  
“Clyde,” Dad begins, pulling his glasses down his nose. Clyde can see his eyes again, but it’s not enough, because he’s still so angry. And it’s too much, because Dad looks so hurt.  
“You don’t own me, Dad.” Clyde’s almost startled at the sound of his own voice, because now it comes out all flat and _cold_. “Even though you pay for the house and the food and that shitty ugly jacket, you don’t own me!”  
They stare at each other for what feels like an hour, until Clyde manages to twist his head around, and break eye contact. Until he runs upstairs, like the coward he is, with Dad’s voice calling out after him; “But I never _said…!_ ” 

Even while he’s brushing his teeth with enough force to take off the enamel, and flossing and spitting and gargling mouthwash and stripping his clothes off and throwing them into the laundry basket so hard that it tips over… Even while he’s in the shower, washing his hair and digging his nails into his scalp, and scrubbing his skin until it’s all red, and telling himself it’s not _his_ fault, it’s _not_ … Clyde knows he’s wrong. That _he’s_ the one not acting like himself.  
He pulls his pyjamas off the peg on the bathroom door, and it takes him three tries to get the shirt buttoned up right. Then he runs across the hallway like a thief, and right into bed. Pulls the covers up over his head and curls up in a ball under there, like he always has. Ever since he was little, since Mom was still alive, and stopped acting like herself.  
There is a long, drawn-out creaky sound, as his bedroom door is pushed open. Clyde doesn’t hear Dad’s feet cross the carpet, but he can feel his mattress sink down a little, as Dad sits down at the foot end of his bed.  
“I never thought I’d be doing this alone,” Dad says, as his hand finds Clyde’s ankle under the covers, and closes around it. “You know. Raising you. I mean.” Dad clears his throat. “I spend a lot of time thinking about things that might happen to you. But I only spent fifteen dollars on that jacket. So if you hate it that much, I’m sure there’s a, a generously endowed lady out there who’d love to find something like that at Sloppy Seconds.”  
Clyde sniffles, and says the first thing that pops into his mind – which is, “Fifteen dollars?”  
“Yup. Bought it from a guy down at the petrol station by the mall. He said he’ll be there all week. So if you want, we can go down there on my break tomorrow, and get you one you won’t hate quite so much?”  
“I’m, I’m sorry,” Clyde sniffles, and pulls the covers off so he can sit up and hug Dad tight. “I didn’t mean to…”  
“It’s okay,” Dad says, as his hand strokes Clyde’s hair, over and over. “I know you didn’t.” 

“I had an idea,” Tweek says, on the bus the next morning. He’s kneeling on his seat so he can sit backwards and talk to Clyde, and more or less ignoring Craig. With every bump in the road, the blue hood of Tweek’s raincoat bobs up and down. It’s not raining today at all, but Tweek’s probably feeling paranoid about the weather changing. Someone has pulled what looks like a black shoelace through the bottom and tied a knot in each end, to replace that cord Craig cut off yesterday. Probably Craig himself, now that Clyde thinks about it. For all he knows, yesterday’s “secret boyfriend stuff” consisted of a trip to the shoe store to buy laces.  
“Okay?” Clyde’s feeling way more like himself, now that he can wear his football jacket to school again.  
“I’ll save you some time,” Craig drawls, reaching up to adjust his hat. “It’s stupid.”  
“ _You’re_ stupid,” Tweek immediately fires back, but he doesn’t sound pissed at all. “Let’s say we all go to the cinema after school tomorrow, right?”  
“Right,” Clyde says, deciding he’d better play along for now.  
“But we only buy four tickets. And then,” Tweek holds one finger up, like he’s reached the crux of his master plan, “You can smuggle _me_ in under your huge-ass parka! And then we can spend _my_ ticket money on candy and popcorn!”  
“I love you and all,” Craig drawls, “But that’s retarded.”  
“P-people w-w-would see your legs s-sticking out,” Jimmy agrees.  
“But if I wrap them around his waist, I can just _hang_ –”  
“And I can just _buy_ you more popcorn,” Token says, rolling his eyes. “ _Please_ just let me buy you popcorn? Instead of getting us banned from the only cinema in town?”  
“It could totally work,” Tweek huffs; sitting back down and folding his arms across his skinny chest.  
“I’m sorry, Tweek,” Clyde says, and he’s not quite able to keep the relief out of his voice, “But I don’t have that parka anymore.”


End file.
